Gladys Citron was about to knock on the door of Unit A when Velveeta Keats said from behind her, “I’ll bet you’re his mama. You two sure look alike.”
Gladys Citron turned. “I’m Mrs. Citron.”
Velveeta Keats smiled, shifted the suitcase to her left hand, and stuck out her right. “I’m Velveeta Keats, and Morgan and I’re just fixing to leave for the airport.”
“Velveeta,” Gladys Citron said, accepting the offered hand.
“Like the cheese,” the younger woman said.
“Well,” Gladys Citron said, smiling her most brittle smile and turning back toward the door. “Let’s see if he’s receiving.”
She knocked. A moment later the door was opened by Morgan Citron, dressed in his new tan suit. He looked first at his mother and then at Velveeta Keats. “I take it you two have met.”
“We introduced ourselves,” Gladys Citron said.
“Come in.” He moved away from the door.
Velveeta Keats backed up a tentative step or two. “I’ll come back later if you two’d like—”
Citron interrupted. “Don’t worry about it, Velveeta. Come on in. Please.”
Gladys Citron was now inside the apartment and turning as she swept it with her eyes. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by to see where you were living.”
“Would you like some wine?” he said as Velveeta Keats came in and put her suitcase down.
“Yes, please,” his mother said. “I think I would.”
“We usually sit around the table,” Velveeta Keats said, drawing back one of the bent-iron chairs.
“How cozy,” Gladys Citron said and settled herself into the chair the younger woman held for her. Gladys Citron smiled her thanks and said, “What do you do to keep busy, Miss Keats?”
“I sort of fool around.”
“Velveeta’s a remittance woman,” Citron said as he put three Kraft-cheese glasses of red wine on the table and sat down between the two women.
“Really,” Gladys Citron said. “How fascinating. If you’re a remittance woman, then you’re not from California, are you?”
Velveeta Keats shook her head. “Miami.”
Gladys Citron turned to her son. “You two are taking a trip, I understand.”
“That’s right.”
“Might I ask where?”
“Tucamondo.”
“Well,” she said, “the current bang-bang capital of the world. I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“It’s not your usual kind of peaceful backwater, Morgan, all quaint and curious. People keep getting shot down there, and decapitated, and kidnapped, and what-have-you. Not your sort of country at all.”
Citron sipped some wine, smiled indifferently at his mother, and turned to Velveeta Keats. “My mother is an authority on danger and violence. During the war she was with the Resistance in France.”
“Was that World War Two?”
Citron nodded. “See this ribbon?” He touched it. “That’s the Legion d’Honneur. It was given to her by de Gaulle himself because of all the Germans she killed. An even three dozen, wasn’t it, Gladys?”
“Around in there.”
“She’s really quite proud of it.”
“I don’t blame her,” Velveeta Keats said. “Lordy, that must’ve really been something.”
Citron turned back to his mother. “Come on, Gladys, what’s the real reason Velveeta and I shouldn’t fly down to Tucamondo?”
They stared at each other for several seconds until Gladys Citron shrugged and looked away. “None really — if neither of you minds getting shot at or beat up or made to disappear. In fact, I understand the climate is rather pleasant down there this time of year. Not too hot.” She paused and then asked as casually as she could, “Just the two of you going?”
“Yes,” Citron lied.
“Well, if you run across something unusual down there in the way of a story, Morgan, do remember your dear old mother. We pay awfully well, you know.”
“All right.”
“Where will you be staying?”
“I suppose at the Inter-Continental, if there is one.”
“There is,” Gladys Citron said as she rose. “There always seems to be an Inter-Continental in places where the people spend much of their time shooting at each other.” She smiled at Velveeta Keats. “It was so nice meeting you, Miss Keats. I don’t think I’ve ever met a real remittance woman before. I do hope we see more of each other.”
Citron rose as his mother moved to the door, opened it, and then turned back. “Have a good trip, Morgan, and do be careful.”
“Thanks. I will.”
Gladys Citron said something very quickly in French, looked long and carefully at her son, and then left, closing the door behind her. Citron resumed his seat at the table. Velveeta Keats stared at him curiously. “What’d she say — in French, I mean?”
“Roughly translated, she said life is full of pitfalls for the unwary.”
Velveeta Keats continued to stare at him. Finally, she said in a very soft sad voice, “Gosh, you two sure do hate each other, don’t you?”
Citron thought about it. “Yes,” he said, wondering why two utter strangers should hate each other. “I suppose we do.”
Chapter 25
Velveeta Keats met Draper Haere for the first time up in the enormous room, which she examined with wide-eyed delight and wonder. They packed Hubert into his carrying case, checked him into the Musette Hotel for Cats, and then drove in Citron’s old Toyota to Los Angeles International Airport, put the car in a lot, and checked into American Airlines for Flight 451 to Houston with its connection to Tucamondo.
There would be a thirty-minute wait before the flight was called, and Draper Haere suggested a drink. Velveeta Keats asked Citron to order her a Bloody Mary and then excused herself because she was just dying to go to the bathroom.
After the drinks came, Haere took a swallow of his and said, “My Candidate chickened out.”
“Oh?” Citron said, thought about it, and then asked why.
“They sent an arm-twister out from Washington. An old pro who told my Candidate if he’d drop the Tucamondo thing, they’d hand him the nomination on a plate in ’eighty-eight, or maybe even ’eighty-four.”
“Veatch believe them?”
“Not really. But there was an implied threat that if he didn’t dowhat they asked — or demanded — he’d be a dead political duck after this term is over and maybe even have to go to work for a living — or something equally unspeakable.”
Citron nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I don’t think I need to ask who they are.”
“No.”
“You’re one of them, actually, aren’t you?”
“I’m a drawer of water, a hewer of wood. They’re philosopher-kings.”
“What about the Candidate’s wife, the fair Louise?”
“Her.”
“Yes.”
Haere had another swallow of his beer. “Let’s say she remained loyal to her husband’s decision.”
“I see.” Citron had some of his own beer and said, “What else?”
“Those two fake FBI types you checked out. Well, they dropped by again.”
“When?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Evening.”
“And?”
“They told me to drop it.”
“And if you don’t?”
“They’ll break my cat’s neck, and then mine, and then maybe even yours.”
Citron studied the beer in his glass. “I see.”
“You can still cut out. I certainly wouldn’t blame you.”
“No,” Citron said. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not? It can’t be the money; it’s not that much.”
Citron drank some more of his beer before answering. “It’s just that I’ve been away for more than two years now, and I’ve finally started back. I have a feeling that if I don’t keep on going, I’ll never get there. Back, I mean.”